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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958445">We'd Laugh At The Ghosts Of Our Fears</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster'>AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa'>akirakurosawa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>At this point, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Elrond is emo and he needs his dad(dy), F/M, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Snippets, The OT3 is Implied, and for once in this life i'm not talking about ereinion, canon level angst, elrond is really sad, he needs his wife and husband, i think, implied/referenced harm to animals, in which akira and i duel to the death over fictional characters, no beta we die like High Kings of Noldor, references to mae/mags/finno</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:15:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,638</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/pseuds/akirakurosawa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond Peredhel has many ghosts in his past; none more hurtful nor more beloved than the ones he conjures himself.</p><p>Or: "Why didn't you save me?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Celebrían &amp; Maedhros | Maitimo, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad, Elrond Peredhel &amp; Maglor | Makalaurë, Elrond Peredhel/Ereinion Gil-galad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/gifts">StormXPadme</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a response to 5 sentence fic challenge on tumblr, that my dearest <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/pseuds/StormXPadme">Stormy</a> prompted me for. I couldn't resist, and honestly, neither could Azh, so here we are. </p><p>This may be continued at some point, if I ever get my mind straight. Azh will take it from here. Prepare for ANGST. (Maybe some comfort.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <strong>We Laugh At The Ghosts Of Our Fears</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>“W</strong>
  </em>
  <em>hy didn't you save me?”</em>
</p><p>The whisper comes on the wings of the night, exacerbated by the continuous silence and the weak twinkling of the stars - it is as damning as the dawn is inevitable, and it is nothing he had not been asking himself for a little over three millennia.</p><p>It is nothing he will not ask himself for all the eternity, and even if they survive the inevitable war, even if he gets to sail to the Undying Lands, even if he gets to see them both again, he knows he will still hear that question in their melodious voices, voices that he never heard merged yet whose harmony he is able to imagine perfectly.</p><p>They stand before him, apparitions of his mind - Celebrían, his lovely wife and his fierce love and <em>his gentle silver Queen</em>, magnificent and proud, her face marred with heinous scars he would always vividly remember, her once white dress torn and dirty with mud, and Ereinion Gil-Galad, his friend, his starry - eyed Lord, everyone’s High King but more importantly <em>his only</em> <em>King</em>, the broken crown barely visible in his golden hair that is matted with blood, spears protruding from his bloodied armor in a grotesque picture he could never forget.</p><p>“<em>Why didn’t you save us?</em>,” their voices merge in harmony of despair and pain and recrimination, and he clenches his fists and refuses to weep, because he loves them both, he loves them still, he loves them more than he ever thought possible and his <em>fëa </em>bleeds sorrow and pain as he drinks in the sight of them as he last saw them - broken and still, always, <em>his</em>.</p><p>Before him, the stars disappear and the dawn rises, and Elrond Peredhel gathers himself and walks to his Council for the last time ever, with footsteps of two ghosts of loves lost echoing behind him through watchful halls of Imladris.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Maglor comforts Elrond</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I think we're just dueling snippets now</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <strong>I Know I've Been Through The Wars</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>            Elrond is crying in the night again.  Maglor knows that his son is dreaming, because he does not cry like that when he is awake, wild and lost, like the child he was when Maglor and Maedhros found him at Sirion.  Maglor goes to him, because Elrond’s bed is empty, because his beautiful wife has slipped away from him, though her presence lingers everywhere.  Elrond wakes at Maglor’s ginger touch on his arm, and puts a hand to his face, bringing it away wet with tears.</p><p>            “Did I wake you, Atya?  I am sorry.”</p><p>            “Hush, little one,” Maglor whispers, pulling Elrond into his arms.  “It is every parent’s privilege to comfort their child in the wake of nightmares.” He feels his son trembling—and because he is so stubborn, he knows the boy is going to object, so he continues.  “You can be strong for everyone else, but you do not need to be strong for me.  What were you dreaming of?”</p><p>            “Celebrian and—Ereinion,” says Elrond, the words jerked out of him, his head ducked down, as if he expects Maglor to respond poorly to that. </p><p>            Maglor would laugh at the absurdity of it, if it did not hurt so. Instead, he strokes Elrond’s hair.  “To lose the two dearest lovers in the world to you is impossible,” he whispers. </p><p>            “You knew?” Elrond whispers hoarsely.  “Of course you knew.  Damn it, Atya.”</p><p>            “Of course I knew.  It’s my business to know these things.”  And how could he <em>not</em> know, when every look that Elrond sent Gil-galad echoed every look Maglor had ever given Finno?  Hopeless devotion followed by indescribable tenderness.  The impossibility that the other two would look at you and see something worth keeping.</p><p>            “I watched him die,” Elrond murmurs, his voice shaking.  “His banner fallen and trodden into the mud—he never faltered but still he fell—”</p><p>            Maglor can still smell the bloody, befouled battlefield after the Nirnaeth.  He grits his teeth against the shudder and holds his son tightly.</p><p>            “And I watched her fade away,” sobs Elrond.  “I could not protect her.  I could not keep her safe.  I could not <em>heal her</em>.  What kind of a healer cannot heal the one he loves?”</p><p>            What kind of a healer, indeed?  Maglor swallows his own sob, because he cannot help but see the look on Nelyo’s face as he stood above a fiery chasm, that awful look of hopelessness that no matter what, Maglor could never ease.</p><p>            “I know, Elrond, I know.  Oh, my little one, I know,” he whispers, and Elrond clings to him in the dark, and if they are both crying, well, at least only Elrond’s sobs are audible.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Another day, another prompt, another Elrond angst-fest that ends hopefully this time, because *I* am not the monster here.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Everyone was leaving him.</em>
</p><p>The ship that took Celebrían from him and to the Undying Lands was long gone, a tiny speck on the horizon, and all around him the sea was wailing in melody that echoed his sorrow in perfect harmony; a harmony that he hated, that he despised with every ounce of his being, a harmony that he wished was a living thing so he could shatter it against the rough stones like the waves shattered before his eyes, hurting him with their carelessness and cruelty.</p><p>Elrond was finally all alone - Galadriel and Celeborn took Arwen away with them some time ago; Círdan knew Elrond well enough to understand he wanted no company; Erestor and Glorfindel went to escort the twins back to their lodgings, so Elrond was alone, and <em>was that not just perfect, just right, just as it always had been, and always will be</em>, he thought to himself as tears flowed from his eyes, leaving salt tracks of pain in their wake.</p><p>Since the mere beginning of his life, he was always left behind; his birth parents left him and Elros behind to go and save the world, his adoptive parents left because of the Oath that weighed on them heavier than chains, Elros his brother left him when he chose to walk the path of Men, Tyelpe died because of his own trusting nature and Sauron’s deceit, and then the worst loss of them all - his friend, his Lord, his <em>King </em>died fighting the Enemy, on the same battlefield where he stood and yet too far away for Elrond to save him, to heal him, and he felt his whole world crumble then; and yes, they either left for arguably right reasons or because of circumstances they had no control over, but the fact remained - everyone he loves eventually ends up leaving him behind.</p><p>His dearest Celebrían was the last of a long line of those who left him, and he would never begrudge her leaving - how could he, when he could not heal her, he could not prevent what happened to her and he wished with all his might that the Grey Lands brought her the healing he was unable to provide; but he still mourned for his love, for his friend and confidante and the personification of happiness he was unable to believe he would ever feel again after Ereinion, he still wept for the horrors that befell his best friend and mother of his children, his lovely silver Queen; and he still blamed himself for being too slow to save her and too weak to heal her; he still felt too selfish for wanting her to stay by his side, when she could find no respite in Middle-Earth anymore.</p><p>As the waves crashed around him in crescendo of anguished screams, he thought how he was always too late to save the ones he loved; always too slow to come to their aid; always too selfish to let them go; always too weak to heal the wounds on their bodies and souls; always the one left behind; always the one who could not make them better; always the one who failed; never enough; never important enough for them to wish to stay; but as he thought these things, the wind started to blow ferociously, not cold anymore, but warm, and Elrond felt his eyes widen and a sob escape him as the stormy air brought on its wings a melody of a half-forgotten voice that delivered the message in a tongue long forbidden that finally brought Elrond to his knees: “I am coming, <em>onya</em>, <em>melitsa</em>, just please, please,<em> wait for me</em>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Your move, sugar.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Grief is a song echoed by the sea.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>;) back to you</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Grief was a song easily echoed by the sea.Maglor had known it for centuries.Though he had at times strayed away from the pale sands and the water, had spent nearly a Man’s lifespan once in a happiness he did not deserve in a fishing village by the shore, he had always been brought back to the ocean by the sound of the gulls and the waves drawing the dormant grief to the surface of his heart.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Always too late,</em> the voice cried, and at first he thought—<em>Nelyo?</em>He had never said as much in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth, but Maglor had always known that was the song that thrummed and echoed in Nelyo’s soul.The song that had pulled him finally away from Maglor, away into a fiery sleep from which there was no waking.</p>
<p class="p1">No.Not Nelyo.</p>
<p class="p1">Nelyo’s <em>son.</em></p>
<p class="p1">Elrond.Maglor felt the fear rising inside him—Elrond should never, never sound so.He was supposed to be safe, surrounded by those he loved.Maglor had attended Elrond’s wedding to Celebrian, and he had never seen such devotion since the last time Finno stroked Nelyo’s cheek in a tent the night before their world ended.But the sound of Elrond’s voice on the ocean wind now was <em>alone</em>. </p>
<p class="p1">Lost and alone.<em>Nelyo’s face, turning back towards Maglor, pinched with pain and blank with a hopeless loss that his little brother could never heal.</em>The fear rose, choking and strong, and Maglor raised his voice in song, sending reassurance and love and a plea—<em>wait</em>, <em>just wait, don’t—just wait, little one, I am coming</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">He felt Elrond’s blank disbelief, but he also felt the sweet thread of dawning hope before the connection snapped again.</p>
<p class="p1">Thank the Valar he was not so physically far away that he could not reach Elrond that day.It took him longer than he wished but not <em>so</em> long before he could see the lonely, blue-clad figure standing on the white shore, while the sad gulls cried above him.</p>
<p class="p1">Maglor was out of breath with running by the time he reached him, his lungs so stripped of air he could not even say anything, but he could put out a hand.He watched the disbelief in Elrond’s gaze turn to gladness—not even a moment of suspicion?—and he hadn’t known what to expect; he had just known that Elrond must know that someone loved him.He was <em>not</em> alone.</p>
<p class="p1">Maglor stretched out a tentative hand, and Elrond flung himself into Maglor’s arms so hard that the two of them went over backwards.Maglor gasped at the shock of cold water on him as they hit the waves. “<em>Atya</em>,” Elrond was gasping breathlessly, almost trying to burrow into his arms, and Maglor sat up dizzily and pulled him close, stroking his hair back from his forehead.</p>
<p class="p1">“You are <em>not</em> alone, little one,” he whispered.“Atya’s here.Atya’s here.”</p>
<p class="p1">Elrond sobbed.“My Celebrian,” he whispered, and his voice was <em>shattered</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.”Maglor held him tightly.“Cry if you need to.I’m here.You’re not alone.”</p>
<p class="p1">The sea echoed Elrond’s grief—but it no longer echoed his loneliness.</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Elrond on the battlefield in front of destroyed Barad-dûr.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The crown is in Elrond’s hands, lovely and golden, the precious stones still shining, amethyst and sapphire and emerald, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. It used to sit atop </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>head, radiant on the golden tresses that moved as he walked and talked and laughed, and the external light of it only emphasised the sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>radiant</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>regal</span>
  </em>
  <span> that shone from within <em>him</em>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is ugly and deformed in Elrond’s hands. His fingers are dirty, and they grip the metal too tight. The blood already on the crown is soon to be joined by Elrond’s blood - he knows this, yet his grip does not weaken.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needs it to hurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needs it to hurt, because the inside of him is a scorched mess of devastation, and he cannot stop thinking on this, and he needs to think on other things, he needs to make decisions, he needs to gather himself and quickly, for the battle is not yet done, there is still things to do, army to command, and <em>he</em> is not here so Elrond must do it, but he cannot, if he is thinking on <em>this</em>, so he grips the crown tighter and wills it to break his skin, and spill his blood, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because he needs not to think on the pain in his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fëa</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he needs to think on the pain in his </span>
  <em>
    <span>hröa</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead, if he is to do his duty.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The jewels twinkle at him; they mock him with their glow and he <em>hates</em> them, for they are no more than worthless trinkets now; a reminder of a failure and a last remnant of greatness. Worthless to him, worthless to the world, worthless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything is worthless now that the King is dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How many Kings have I buried</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and holds the crown tighter, letting it hurt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How many Kings have left me behind, with nothing but trinkets like this and memories that desolate and ruin me every time they pour into my mind like an avalanche, and only those to remember them by?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers holding a string of a harp, woven delicately to fit around his wrists, the echoes of the music it used to enchant and put him to sleep with still there in wispy echoes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers clutching an iron crown much like this one, that looked at home on a hair of fire, to his chest when he was young; a last remnant of a once King.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers holding a beautifully crafted ring, with a stone of sapphire (</span>
  <em>
    <span>the color of his eyes</span>
  </em>
  <span>), its beauty undeniable, its power unimaginable, and giving it away, only to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> give it back to Elrond - was it only days ago?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds the crown and refuses to search for the ring in his pouch; if he takes it, the deceit ends. If he takes either of them. the ring or the crown, he will have to admit to himself <em>he</em> is gone. He will have to bury his pain, and accept the unacceptable, the blasphemous, the unimaginable. He will have to accept that-- that Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the </span>
  <span>Ñ</span>
  <span>oldor, is gone; is utterly, irrevocably, gone; is gone and away somewhere Elrond <em>cannot</em> <em>follow</em>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Elrond,” he hears a voice above the clamor of the battlefield. He turns his head to the Elf that speaks to him in a daze; his hair is almost white, and his eyes are terrible to behold, mirroring Elrond’s own in pain and despair. Elrond knows what he wants, Elrond knows what he has to do, what he has to say, but speaking is difficult, and his mind is weary, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot say it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My dear Elrond,” Círdan’s voice breaks, and Elrond remembers that Gil-Galad was sent to him as a youth, and had spent half of his life with Círdan, and that Círdan had no children, and he knows Círdan will understand what he must do, even if nobody else does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elrond Peredhel had buried too many things in his life. He had buried his childhood a long time ago, even before he started burying Kings; his birth-parents were buried under an impenetrable wall of Valinor that he could not cross; his Father-King was buried under molten lava and raging inferno; his Atya was buried under the walls of despair that separated him from Elrond, somewhere at sea, too far away to be reached, if he even cared; Tyelpe was buried under lies and deceit, his brother-by-heart, betrayed by his heart; Elros, his brother-by-blood was buried under mortal finality, buried in the ground a long time ago, choosing to walk a Mortal path Elrond could, and would not follow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elrond thought that  the pain that came with burying his twin that tore at his heart; the pain of losing all his parents; the pain of not being enough for the ones he had left to come back for him; the pain of losing and burying everyone that he cared about; he thought, with all that, his heart could not be made to hurt worse, for it was already broken so many times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elrond knows now he was wrong. His heart could hurt; it could hurt more; it could hurt worse; it could break <em>completely.</em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ereinion Gil-Galad was buried underneath the bodies of enemy forces, and blood, and iron, underneath broken banners, and broken bones, and broken dreams, and with him, with this dead King, with <em>his dead King</em>, will also be buried whatever is left of Elrond’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Opening his mouth to speak took effort, but the words came from deep within him, hard and definite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ereinion Gil-Galad, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the last High King of the </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Ñ</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>oldor in Middle-Earth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is dead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Elrond Peredhel lets go of the golden crown that once adorned the brow of the King he loved the most; it falls at his feet on the ground of Mordor before the remnants of Barad-d</span>
  <span>ûr</span>
  <span>; it shatters into pieces.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<em>
    <span>Akin to my heart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Elrond thinks, and turns away to find Isildur. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I tried to sleep. I failed. I wrote this? Will try to sleep now. </p><p>(Azh: I will be waiting for your retaliation. ALL THE LOVE. &lt;3)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Celebrían finds Elrond.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The sun is setting blood-red across the battlefield when Celebrían finally returns.Daeroch was killed underneath her, and by the time she realized the enemy had scattered and had mourned him, it was a long, lonely walk back. </p>
<p class="p1">Exhaustedly, she pushes her way into the tent she has been sharing with Elrond and Ereinion.Inside, it’s dark and cold, and at first, she thinks it’s empty.Then she hears the soft ragged breath from the other side.“Elrond?” she asks, waveringly, hesitatingly, because if only Elrond is here, does that mean—</p>
<p class="p1">A shocked sob.“<em>Celebrían</em>!”The next instant his arms are around her, and he is burying his face into her shoulder.Something in one of his hands is poking into the upper part of her back, but she gathers him up and kisses the top of his head.“I didn’t—“ he gulps.“I did not know if you survived, my love.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Daeroch was killed,” she says, soft and bleak.“I’m sorry to have worried you.”</p>
<p class="p1">He does not seem willing to let her go, and Celebrían is not ready to stop holding him either.He’s warm and real in her arms, and she combs her fingers through his long hair.His own hands roam across her back, and she yelps with pain as whatever it is pokes her again.“Elrond, what <em>is</em> that?” she snaps crossly, and he steps back, stricken, then holds it up mutely.</p>
<p class="p1">It is Ereinion’s crown.Scorched, soot-blackened, and bloodied.</p>
<p class="p1">Celebrían presses her hands to her mouth.She looks from the crown to the broken tears spilling from Elrond’s eyes, and she <em>knows</em>.“No,” she whispers.“Oh, no.”</p>
<p class="p1">“He and Elendil broke Sauron’s power,” whispers Elrond.“But—”</p>
<p class="p1">Her knees suddenly don’t want to carry her, and she sits down before she can fall, pressing her hands to her eyes and trying to hold back the sob.Elrond needs her.More now than ever before.She cannot fall apart.She cannot.“Come here,” she rasps out.“Let me hold you.”</p>
<p class="p1">He slips into her lap, still holding the battered crown, and she pushes back everything else other than the weight of him and the warmth of him. She cups his chin with her hand and kisses him, deep and hard.He kisses her back desperately, and she puts her hands gently over his, holds his hands loosely on Ereinion’s crown. </p>
<p class="p1">The king is dead.Their king is dead.</p>
<p class="p1">Sauron is defeated, and it should be a happy day, but their king is dead. </p>
<p class="p1">Elrond pulls back from the kiss and gently presses his forehead to hers, their warm breath mingling.The crown is heavy between them.Celebrían doesn’t know how to be strong for this.She doesn’t know how to grieve for this.She knows only she must be what Elrond needs her to be right now, but she doesn’t know what that is.She doesn’t know if he knows either.</p>
<p class="p1">Ereinion, who was always laughing, always joyful.Ereinion, with whom she schemed to snatch a romantic moment with Elrond as soon as she had seen him.As soon as he had seen her and nearly swallowed his tongue on his blushes and stutters.Ereinion, who held them both and told them terrible bawdy jokes and let them both pin him to the bed and tickle him until he was begging—</p>
<p class="p1">Ereinion, blazing fire, brave beauty—“Our king,” whispers Elrond, then kisses her nose.“And thou wert always our queen.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Our king,” Celebrían whispers back.“Oh, Elrond, my sweet love, I swear I will never leave thee.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Thou cannot promise that,” he says, voice shaking.</p>
<p class="p1">“I will promise it anyway,” she says fiercely, and he holds her hands and closes his eyes and exhales softly.“Thank you, my love.”</p>
<p class="p1">Many years later, Celebrían will hate herself for breaking that promise.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i had so much writer's block but i broke through it JUST FOR YOU &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. goodbye to all my darkness, there's nothing here but light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Celebrían sails; some wounds are not so easy to heal.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this just kind of happened and I think it fits here?</p><p>chapter title from Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing Devil</p><p>(your move, akira)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The last thing that Maedhros saw before the lava took him was the sight of his little brother’s face cracking open with grief.The last thing that Celebrían saw as the little ship sailed swiftly from the Grey Havens was the sight of her husband’s face doing the same.When Celebrían came to Valinor, she was little more than stubbornness stitched together with spite, an old woman in an ageless Elven body.Broken and put back together, not quite right, with bones that ached when the weather turned bad and a cane she clutched at her side even on the good days, when she didn’t need it.She discovered that whether or not there was healing in Valinor, what felt more pertinent to her was that there were <em>stairs</em>.Everywhere.</p><p class="p1">People did offer to carry her up them, but she didn’t want to be carried.She didn’t want to give up the control to anyone she didn’t trust implicitly, and the only people she trusted implicitly were either dead or far away across the sea.So she spent a lot of time being invited to places and politely declining, or trying to go and turning around part of the way there.Sometimes she did make it all the way and then spent the evening curled up in pain and hiding with a bottle of wine to soothe the aches.</p><p class="p1">It was true that she felt closer to her<em> hröa</em> in Valinor, but she wasn’t sure that was even a good thing.Everything hurt, and she was terribly, terribly lonely, and everyone stared at her, or—worse—very obviously <em>didn’t</em>.A few weeks after she arrived, the third night in a row she had woken screaming—and, she gathered, though no one said so in any way that was not <em>careful</em> and <em>polite</em>—woke her grandparents—they bundled her away to Lórien, to see Este.</p><hr/><p class="p1">“She’s hurting, but this is not a wound I know how to heal.”</p><p class="p1">“It is a sorrow I have seen before.I feel it, but I fear I could only sorrow with her.It is not given to a Vala to change in the way one of the Eldar would need; I do not know what she would do if she wished to move beyond sorrow.”</p><p class="p1">“Perhaps it is not healing that she needs, but understanding.”</p><p class="p1">“It is true that such sorrows are not found in those who never left Valinor.It must be difficult…”</p><p class="p1">“Her grandparents sent her here for healing, but I don’t believe they know what healing is best for her.It should be what she wants, should it not?If what was taken from her was her will and freedom.”</p><p class="p1">“There is one in Mandos who suffers as she does.Very, very like.”</p><p class="p1">“You <em>don’t</em> mean—“</p><p class="p1">“I do.”</p><hr/><p class="p1">Mandos was arguing with someone again.Maedhros was tired.Doubtless Fingon had once again petitioned for his release from the halls and once again been denied.Maedhros wasn’t certain he wanted to hear the argument, so he simply moved away. </p><p class="p1">At some point in his motions, he found that he had come to a door different from most of those he had seen in Mandos.When he stepped through it, he found himself in a long hallway with an open window and another door at the other end.He also found that he was mired down and off-kilter, his <em>fëa</em> struggling against something heavy encompassing it.</p><p class="p1">When he <em>looked down</em>—physically, for the first time in centuries—he was looking at <em>himself</em>, his own ragged, tall, skinny body.Slowly, in some confusion, he held up the stump of his right hand, then his left hand and spread out the fingers.White scars gleamed on the inside of his wrist.</p><p class="p1">Further down the passage, at the wide window, there was a small figure curled up and looking out.She had fluffy white hair and her shoulders were curved forward like an old Woman, but when Maedhros approached, on hesitant, awkward steps, she looked up and he saw that she was a <em>nís</em>, but one with a face as marked and marred and twisted as his own.</p><p class="p1">Maedhros gave her a stiff, if wobbling bow.“My lady.”</p><p class="p1">“Who are you?” she asked, and he saw how she held herself, in that half-defensive, half-fearful manner that was so intimately familiar to him.Her eyes traveled up his tall form with some apprehension.</p><p class="p1">He licked his lips.He did not want to lie, and he did not think he could think of a convincing lie in any case.“I am Maedhros Fëanorion,” he said in a low voice.“But I promise I do not mean you any harm.I will quickly pass on if that is what you wish.”</p><p class="p1">Her dark countenance lightened a little as his words, though Maedhros could not understand why it would.“Maedhros?” she whispered.“Then…that is why you look so, is it not?”</p><p class="p1">“The scars of Angband do not heal, even in the Halls of Mandos, it seems,” Maedhros said, with a little crooked smile.</p><p class="p1">“It seems the Halls have no succor for me either, then,” she retorted bitterly, tracing two fingers across a vicious line that looked as if it had nearly blinded her right eye.“How do you—manage?”</p><p class="p1">“Poorly, until the day I did not manage any longer.”Maedhros shrugged.“I think the Halls did help.But it was not the scars, in the end, but the parting from my—“ he swallowed thickly.“I learned to live with them,” he said finally, unwilling to finish the thought.</p><p class="p1">“You did not—forgive me, if the question is insensitive—you were not <em>cured</em>?” she asked.</p><p class="p1">“No, not as such.”Maedhros wanted to go to her and offer to embrace her—how small she looked, how fragile! but of course to do so would be rude, and he did not want to frighten her, in any case.“The ones I loved and I found ways to manage, but there were ever bad days.Those just have to be lived through, I suppose.”</p><p class="p1">She heaved a sigh, but she looked, once again, quite unaccountably more cheerful.“<em>That</em> I feel I could almost do,” she said quietly.“To learn to live with the scars and the breaking.Instead of having to be better, somehow.”Then she patted the window-seat beside her.“Please sit beside me,” she said.“For I am Celebrían, the daughter of thy cousin and the wife of thy son, my dearest Elrond.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have never posted anything this short, EVER.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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